


Favourite Mistake

by Breath4Soul



Series: Tumblr Made Me Do It [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: (ಠ‿↼), Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Drunk John, First Kiss, Horny John, Johnlock Fluff, Johnlockprompts, M/M, Prompt Fic, Prompt Fill, Sharing a Bed, Sherlock Wearing A Sheet, Tumblr Prompt, Tumblr: johnlockchallenges, Virgin Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-08
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2018-05-19 05:26:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5955352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Breath4Soul/pseuds/Breath4Soul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A light little AU ficlet about John and Sherlock's first meeting at uni when John gets drunk and pounds on the wrong door thinking it is his room. It turns out to be Sherlock's.</p><p>--------------------------</p><blockquote>
  <p>John grinned and stared up into those green-blue eyes dazed. He pressed his lips together in an effort to look patient and blinked slowly, staring expectantly at the lips that spilled all those elegant words with such precise diction and an amazing rumbly voice. “Come on, then, I could listen to you for hours.” A smile tipped John’s lips. “Tell me again how you’re going to kill me, I like that bit."</p>
</blockquote><br/>-----------------------<br/><i>All credit for the first paragraph goes to promptsforjohnlock! </i>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_John hadn’t actually intended to get this drunk at the party that night. He’d only meant to have a few drinks here and there then make his excuses. But after failing to avoid being dragged into quite a few drinking games, he is absolutely pissed. Thankfully, the party is held on the same floor as John's room. After stumbling through the halls, he fumbles with the keyhole but his key just will not work. Sighing heavily, John bangs against the door, hoping Mike is still awake and won’t be too mad at him for being drunk._

“What is it?” A deep baritone voice growls from within the room and before John has time to realize that _that_ is **not** Mike’s voice, the door he is propped against is flung open and he stumbles inward, smashing into a tall, lean bloke wrapped in a bed sheet. 

They crash to the floor in a heap, a grunt of air escaping the sheet-clad fellow below him. John hears the door swing wide on its hinges and slam shut somewhere below their feet. They lay there on the wooden floor of the dim room amongst the ill-defined shapes of books piled high, overflowing stacks of papers and objects John can only vaguely guess (within his altered state and the low light) are scientific in nature. 

There is only a brief pause to process this upending of the world before everything is moving again. John can't help the fit of giggles that overtakes him as he sprawls on top of this bony stranger, who is struggling to wrangle with his sheet and John. Long, smooth limbs flail wildly like some angry, albino giraffe. 

John is content to just lay there laughing at the feeling. There is a warm heat radiating off this stranger squiriming to dislodge himself from beneath his alcholic-leaden body. 

A good tangle is always fun but John hardly has to try to make this bloke's task more difficult. He obviously has more weight on him than the young man. However, it seems as though the tall frame of the other boy is leanly packed with muscle from what John can feel pressed against him.

“Not how you thought your night would go, eh, mate?” John laughs as the gaunt stranger finally manges to throw him off . He quickly has John pinned, straddling him. John can't help but be impressed.

“Now this is more like it,” John smiles and blinks up, bleary eyed, at the vision above him. A dark halo of curly hair showers around a remarkably young and pale face. Eyes the color of the sea on a stormy day but sharp and piercing, full of heat and intelligence, flick assessingly over John. Perfect plump lips are turned down in anger. Pale skin, hardly contrasting against the white sheet surrounding it, makes it impossible to know where one begins and the other ends. He all but glows in the dim light of the room.

“You’re bloody gorgeous. I’ve died and gone to heaven.” John blinks serenely up at the figure. 

“You’re wasted,” the figure growls. “You should know I can kill you most creatively and dispose of your body in a thousand inventive ways so that you will never be found. I assure you I will never get caught. So unless you want me to extinguish your pathetic, little existence this very moment you better tell me who the hell you are and what the hell you are doing in my room.”

“Yes, _that_ … That… That is amazing. Keep talking, Love.” John grins and stares up into those green-blue eyes, dazed. He presses his lips together in an effort to look patient and blinks slowly, staring expectantly at the lips that spilled all those elegant words with such precise diction and in an amazing rumbly voice. “Come on, then, I could listen to you for hours.” John offers a smile. “Tell me again how you’re going to kill me, I like that bit.” 

Those magnificent eyes dart around the room, looking confused. 

“Idiot,” he grumbles, dismounting and moving away. John groans at the loss.

“Something I said, Love?” He mumbles at the ceiling, raking a hand through his hair.

“Don’t call me that,” the deep voice snaps. John seeks out the source and finds the tall, young man sitting regally on the edge of his bed, looking as if he is wearing royal robes rather than a bed sheet. John grins. 

“What do I call you then?”

“My name is Sherlock Holmes.”

“John Watson,” John offers. There is an oddly comfortable silence for several moments. “Sherlock, are you wearing any pants?”

“Nope.” The word pops on his lips. Defiant, not at all ashamed.

John and Sherlock look at each other a long second and then they both brake down in a fit of laughter.


	2. Chapter 2

“How’d you get a room all to yourself?” John asks remaining sprawled on the floor as he looks around. 

“My brother... knows _people,_ ” spits Sherlock irritably, he pulls his sheet a little tighter around himself as if the very thought of his sibling chills him. 

John nods.The young man has a public school attitude about him. Holding himself in perfect posture, perched on the end of his bed and only looking at John out of the corner of his eyes. He probably feels uncomfortable, maybe even a little threatened by the stranger on his floor.

“That's fortunate,” John says casually, blinking slowly at the younger man in a way that he hopes is appeasing. Sherlock cuts his eyes away and sniffs.

“Apparently, it is for the best for everyone involved if I don't have a roommate given my propensity for... _odd experiments_.” Sherlock gestures around the room scattered with equipment and ends his sweep at a small white fridge underneath the desk.

“Christ!” John exclaims flipping onto his stomach and doing an army crawl over to the mini fridge. “You’ve got your own fridge!”

“You might not want to -” Sherlock lets out an exasperated sigh as John opens the door and is face to face with a decapitated head. He blinks. The head, fortunately, does not blink back. John slowly shuts the door.

“Well, that was… _unexpected_ ,” John remarks soberly.

“Scared?” inquiries Sherlock tipping his head. John shrugs and rolls back onto his back his hands resting lightly on his chest as he gazes up at the ceiling. 

“Mostly just _disappointed_ there's a lot better things to keep inside a fridge, mate… Like beer... or a bite to eat. I'd kill for a cheese sandwich." John rubs absently at his stomach which aches for food. He can't recall when he'd eaten last. John looks up in time to catch Sherlock’s eyes follow the movement of his hand on his shirt. Sherlock's eyes snap away and a lovely pink glow grows in his cheek. 

There is silence for a moment as John plays with the buttons of his shirt. Sherlock is not looking at him but is instead glaring at the wall. It occurs to John that he should say something to ingratiate himself to the beautiful, posh boy who he very much wants to get to know better - _much better_ \- perhaps, intimately. But since he has exactly zero experience in the area of picking up men, his muddled brain just keeps ticking over the finest qualities of Sherlock; _those eyes, those cheekbones, his skin, his hair his voice-_

“Not even appalled, then?” Sherlock quirks a thick eyebrow at John, his too plump mouth is pulled straight in a tight line. 

_His lips - Christ, what lips!_

It takes John a moment to pick up the thread of the conversation again and remember the head in the fridge. 

He should probably be worried about that, shouldn't he?

“Aspiring doctor,” John says not taking his eyes off those lips. _So gorgeous._ He shrugs. “Seen loads of dead people's heads… _deadheads_ ,” John chuckles at himself. “Doesn't really bother me.” John watches Sherlock’s lips twitch in a smile that is quickly suppressed. The comfortable silence settles between them again.

“I didn't do it... You're thinking I killed him but, I should say, I didn't kill him... Borrowed him from the hospital morgue for an experiment.”

John tilts his head. It's kind of sweet and more than a little confusing that Sherlock has gone from threatening to kill John to worrying that John thinks he's a killer. He's not quite sure what to make of the strange mix of natural ease and tension between them. It feels like the start of _something_... something truly unique and amazing.

John looks Sherlock over slowly, letting his eyes linger on his bare legs; pale and thin but muscled. He lets his eyes drift over the sheet to the long column of his neck. He feels his tongue slide across his lips. 

“People often think you're a murderer, then,” John says casually with a warm smile. He feels a bit like he's discovered a hidden treasure everyone else hasn't been smart enough to see right beneath their noses.

“Now and again,” Sherlock sighs. 

“Yeah, I could see that,“ John chuckles. “That whole _‘going to kill you and hide the body where no one can find it’_ thing is starting to make a bit more sense,” John looks up from under his lashes and smiles. “Is my head going to end up in the fridge? I have to be honest, that's _not_ a very good hiding place.”

Sherlock tilts his head and looks John over thoughtfully. “I think not,” he says slowly “I think, just maybe, your head might be more interesting to keep alive and on your shoulders.” 

John smiles warmly and winks thinking that might just be a compliment and perhaps he hasn't completely failed at charming Sherlock after all.

“Thanks, lov- Sherlock.”


	3. Chapter 3

John's fingers bump lightly over the row of buttons down the center of his shirt, tracing the line of them over the fabric from sternum to navel then back up again. His eyelids are heavy and drifting closed. 

Sherlock watches him for several seconds, scowling, really - trying to process the odd way his own mind has gone muddled. He swallows around a thick tongue. Of course he knew, in theory, that drunk people are more tactile but he didn't know it was… _contagious._

The room is too hot. The smooth sheet is too heavy and clingy. Where Sherlock's hand is holding it against his sternum, he can feel his heart thudding against the inside of his chest; trying to escape. Sherlock's other hand is gripping his own thigh and his thumb is stroking back and forth in mirror of John's. 

“You can't sleep _here_ ,” Sherlock says at last, his voice not nearly as sharp as he intends.

John’s eyes pop open and he tilts his head back to find Sherlock. Once he locates him, John’s smile blooms with genuine warmth. 

“Why not?” His shoulders shift against the wooden floor in a shrug. “Don’t mind- I don't mind the -” John gestures at the fridge. “Your 'speriments don't bother me.” 

“That is irrelevant. This is not-”

“Just for the night,” John says lightly, tossing his hand about as if clumsily swatting something out of the air. “Won't be any trouble Quiet as a… _you know,_ ” He gestures towards the dead man ensconced in the fridge, then snorts, nose wrinkling in a way that others might find adorable but Sherlock most definitely finds irritating (well, tries very hard to, anyways). 

John slips a hand over his own lips, shushing his own noises and trying hard to be serious. “Won't make a noise,” he gazes at Sherlock with wide, glassy and apologetic eyes. They are like a puppy dog’s. 

_Ridiculous._

“I'm afraid it's not possible-”

“Company's nice, Sherlock.” He beams at Sherlock. “B’sides mmm comfortable,” he mumbles. He tucks his hands into his armpits and wiggles a little, as if burrowing more comfortably against the floor. 

“You can't sleep on the floor. You are a trip hazard and are blocking the only exit, which would clearly be a violation of fire codes. There is only the one bed and-”

“Mmmm, ok.” And suddenly the boy is up, off the floor, and lumbering over the footboard. He flops clumsily into Sherlock's bed with a harumph. 

“No! I was not- this is _my_ bed.” Sherlock is on his feet and fluttering beside the bed in a mix of panic, exasperation and anger. A blond head is settling onto his pillow with one handsome cheek mushed into the dark purple, silk pillowcase. John has managed to pin his hands beneath his own body, forcing him to do a rather unflattering impression of a log. However, his moan of obvious pleasure over high quality linens is rattling on all of Sherlock’s nerves.

“You can't- where am _I_ to sleep?!”

“Right here.” John manages to extricate his hand by rolling on to his side. He does a little sideways shimmy to slide until his back is against the wall, making himself as small as possible. Then he pats the empty space he's left, inviting Sherlock to claim it.

“All yours. Won't take up much room.”

“I'm not going to…” _No, that's not firm enough. Again. Angrier. More assertive._ “I'm _not_ sleeping with you.”

John's giggle is as purely joyous as it is disconcerting. Sherlock feels his cheeks getting hotter. 

“S’ok. M’ not goin’ do anything. M' not gay.” John’s eyebrows lift and his lips press together in an expression that looks amused and like it is trying much too hard to be innocent and hopeful. 

Sherlock feels a wave of humiliation. Of course he wasn't thinking this boy was going to try to… what - seduce him? That’s _absurd._ No one thinks of Sherlock like _that._ And, moreover, if that somehow was John's intention, he is not _frightened._ Not of John. Not of _anyone_. Absolutely **not.** If anything, John should be scared of him.

“What if _I am?_ " Sherlock scowls, lifting his chin and standing tall to appear intimidating. He hopes to scare the boy away by implying he might do something ‘gay’ to him. He is unprepared for the dangerously coy smile that takes over John's face and the way his eyes sweep down Sherlock's body then back up again.

“That'd be fine,” John says slowly. “It's _all_ fine, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock blinks at John, stunned by that sudden reversal. Instead of disgusted and repulsed, John seems open to the possibility. It doesn't make any sense.

“Alright?” John's brow is furrowed and he's leaned forward a bit in concern as he looks up at Sherlock. Sherlock has no idea how long he has been standing there staring down at that beautifully complex expression but it has obviously been too long.

“You're inebriated beyond making any discernible sense,” Sherlock snaps.

“Oh?” John seems genuinely surprised and dismayed to hear this. “Sorry,” he scrubs a hand over his face. “There was a party and drinking… Didn't mean to drink so much, really. Got, um, classes... tomorrow.. and then Mike- I, um… you're not Mike... Much better than Mike,” John rambles. His eyes have drifted closed but he's smiling. “You're… nice.”

Sherlock looks around the room with eyes narrowed in suspicion, thinking surely this must be a cruel prank. He's not _’nice_.’ No one mistakes him for nice. Not after they’ve actually spoken to him. 

It is frustrating and, if he is completely honest, a little alarming that, in John’s state of intoxication, Sherlock’s usual abrasive and dismissive self-defense methods are failing miserably. He wishes he could leave but it is _his_ room and he’d be sooner damned than let some drunk meatheat chase him out of his own room.

He stands there a moment, looking down on John. Curled up on the too small bed with his eyes closed, as if sleeping, he seems less intimidating. Sherlock weighs his options. He can defend himself. He is a brown belt at Shotokan karate and he had managed to subdue the boy once before when he'd first burst through the doorway and had the element of surprise on his side. He could do it again, if need be.

“Fine.” Sherlock keeps his tone sharp with irritation. “But stay on your side of the bed or I'll break your fingers. I expect you out first thing in the morning and don’t expect me to coddle you and act some host.” 

With that, Sherlock wraps himself tighter in the sheet and, with an irritated huff, flops on his allotted side of the bed as a self-contained cocoon. 

It only takes a moment for the heat from John to start penetrating his sheet barrier. He is trying very hard to ignore it and John in general however he is hyperaware of John's breathing, the in-out rush like the ocean crashing against the shore. It is eroding his own defenses. 

“Mmmm. Thanks.” The voice breaks the quiet and is too close beside Sherlock, soft and intimate. It pours a warm shudder down Sherlock's spine that radiates through him. Long moments pass, still and silent. Sherlock's whole body is thrumming with sensation; every nerve humming with completely unwarranted anticipation that it is about to, for the first time, be touched intimately.

“M’not gay, you know,” John says softly.

“So you've already stated. No one asked,” Sherlock says with practiced indifference. In truth, the words are a cold bucket dousing that warmth that had begun to pull him under its spell. His signals are obviously crossed, to think that John wants to touch him, and it is mortifying to think that John has somehow figured out this misconception. 

“I mean, I don’t _think_ I am,” John continues, his voice thick with confusion and he lets out a loud sigh. This seems like an argument that might happen with himself in his head but, due to lack of inhibitions, Sherlock must suffer him having it aloud. “I mean I don’t notice blokes. I don’t look at them like _that._ ” 

Sherlock can feel those deep blue eyes tracing his profile. He keeps his expression neutral - tries not to move - not to breathe.

“But _you_ … can’t help looking at you.” John’s voice drops lower, all smooth and rough on the edges like raw silk. “You’re bloody gorgeous. Could look at you for ages. Can’t make myself _not_ , actually.”

Sherlocks heart is doing a mambo in his chest. Everything in his head is screaming; sirens blaring, red alert. Outwardly he can only blink at the ceiling, feeling John staring at him through the too thin darkness. 

After several long moments, having quieted his senses enough to move steadily, he slowly turns his head to look at John.

John is on his side, one arm under his own head and the other resting lightly on his stomach. He is smiling that incandescent, warm smile and his eyes sparkle in the low light. 

“You talk too much and, given your level of intoxication, the content is lacking any coherent information.” The tone is even, with just enough edge of annoyance that any other being with a scrap of intelligence would shut up.

John hums softly and nods, his grin never leaving. “Would rather not talk. Would rather listen to that lovely, posh boy accent of yours or…” John’s grin widens and his eyes have not left Sherlock’s lips that are starting to burn and tingle at the intense interest. After an eternity, John’s eyelashes flutter, he licks his lips and looks up into Sherlock’s eyes from under heavier lids. 

“You’re lips are lovely. May I try them?”

“Try… them?” The words are jerky and Sherlock would typically despise parroting someone's words back to them, as if it passed for intelligent discourse, but since he currently is incapable of anything resembling intelligent discourse, it is the best he can do. Sherlock’s vision is white on the edges but he is able to discern John’s face, flushed a lovely pink, looking a bit bashful and wolfish all at once, which should be impossible. It somehow makes Sherlock’s heart lodge just north of his sternum, keeping his barrage of contradicting thoughts corked in.

“Mmmm… Just taste ‘em a bit.” John’s gaze is on his lips again. “Like… an experiment. You like experiments.” John shrugs with the shoulder he isn’t resting on. “That’s what people do in uni - experiment - find out what works - what they like.”

“Experiments have set parameters, clear objectives, precise measures, unbiased observers-”

John snorts a laugh and Sherlock snaps his mouth firmly shut on his panic-driven rambling. 

“I’m sorry,” John says giggling.

Sherlock swallows down the nausea trying to force its way past the lump in his throat. His heart is still racing and his breathing is too quick. The sheet swaddling him now feels itchy and claustrophobic. 

“Sorry, just… _observers?_ For _this?_ Bit kinky.” John is pressing fingers to his own lips again to hold in the giggles that are trying to escape. 

With that, Sherlock can’t help but consider those wet, pink lips pressed against his own. He turns his eyes to the ceiling studying, with a renewed intensity, the same crack that has irritated him night after night since he first moved into this room.

There is a tense quiet and Sherlock thinks that perhaps John has been turned off the idea by Sherlock's ineptitude. This possibility should be a pure relief but instead there is a achy sort of need, like longing, welling up. It’s been a long time since Sherlock has experienced that sort of feeling and he clenches his sheets tighter, like he can physically force it back down into to the dark depths from whence it came.

“You've… um… you've kissed before? A boy like you… bet you've kissed loads of people.” 

Sherlock shakes his head back and forth on the pillow, eyes continuing to trace the imperfect line on the ceiling. He can't bear to look at John and see the scorn or disgust that will surely be there.

“I don't care for most people,” Sherlock tries for a patronising tone and a sneer of distaste. “I don't imagine I'd enjoy having their tongue down my throat.”

John chuckles and Sherlock turns his face away to look at the opposite wall, feeling exposed and humiliated. 

“If they're goin’ straight for tongue down your throat, you're kissing the wrong boys, love” John muses.

“Don't." Sherlock steels himself, makes his tone cold and slicing. "I've told you already to call me Sherlock and I haven't been kissing anybody. Make an attempt to follow along in the conversation or kindly shut up.” 

“Right. Right.” John's voice is gentle and appeasing. Not at all unkind. “It’s just… not supposed to be so... It's more like slow dancing. There's steps to it… a rhythm… give and take.”

Sherlock risks a look at John across the darkness. He is softly running his fingers back and forth over his lips. He lifts his thoughtful gaze and catches Sherlock's stare.

“It wouldn't hurt. I'd go slow. Can tell me to stop any time.”

Sherlock closes his eyes and lets out a long sigh. Part of him says there is no way this could _not_ hurt. Either he will find he doesn't like this sort off physical intimacy and all his suspicious about how abnormal he is will be confirmed or he will find he likes it and, when this night is over and John leaves to never look back on his 'experiment in being gay,’ Sherlock will be the left with an enormous void of longing for something he cannot possible attain.

It's absurd and he shouldn't even be considering it… _however_ … as John said, this could be a useful experiment. Knowledge or mastery of such a skill could prove valuable. Quite possibly this might be Sherlock's only opportunity to attempt such an act with comfortably defined parameters and adequate expectations established by both parties.

This is _not_ emotional.  
This needn't even be _personal._  
It can be completely logical - clinical.  
Minimal risk for the potential gain...

“I like dancing.” Sherlock keeps his words quiet and looks directly at John, measuring the impact. Ready for retreat back to safe ground should it prove some joke John was making.

John does a quick swipe of his lips with his tongue. 

“Really?” He leans forward, eyes sparkling with surprise and eagerness. “You'd be willing - it'd be alright if I -” 

John's fingers slowly venture out into the space between them. Sherlock pulls in a breath as warm, calloused fingers touch his cheek softly and trail back towards his ear. 

“You play rugby,” Sherlock blurts. 

John's hand freezes on Sherlock's cheek and Sherlock instantly wants to take it back. He didn't mean to say _that_ \- didn't mean to say _anything at all_. It just sort of... happened, like a knee-jerk reflex. A latent self-defense mechanism, triggered by John drawing closer. 

“How..?”

“Calluses on fingertips.” _Why can't he just shut up?_ “Distinctive pattern. That, along with your physical physique, which I felt when you tackled me, can mean only one thing; rugby.” He snaps his mouth shut and stares at John with wide eyes. He's not sure how these things are supposed to go but he is fairly certain that it doesn't include _this._

John pauses and just looks at him a moment then lets out a soft breath. “Gorgeous _and_ brilliant. Christ, really lucked out tonight.”

He is grinning as he leans towards Sherlock. Sherlock can't be sure if he moves forward or if John's hand, slipping into his hair and cupping his head, pulls him forward but they are suddenly pressing lips together.

Sherlock freezes and holds himself perfectly still, waiting for the dance to begin; for John to lead. John's lips are warm and wet and taste of the sour, sweet of liquor. As John's lips start to move, soft and subtle, Sherlock desperately wonders if it is possible to get drunk by proxy; if his lips can absorb enough of the alcohol John consumed to warrant the way his head is spinning and his thoughts are blurring. 

“Alright?” John has pulled back and is looking at Sherlock with warmth and an edge of quiet concern. His thumb strokes Sherlock’s cheek soothingly, back and forth. Sherlock blinks and blinks. Can't seem to focus. 

“I -” Sherlock swallows. Stringing together a coherent sentence is clearly not an option. “John," he breathes and nods because that seems like the best alternative to speech. He hopes John can understand.

Remarkably, John does seem to understand. He grins as he shifts closer. 

“Yeah. I thought so too.” 

This time, Sherlock is certain he moves towards John; is gravitationally pulled, actually, needing more of John. 

John hums in approval (or surprise, Sherlock can't be sure) and their lips begin to move. It is, as John indicated, a kind of dance; a slow, sensual, rhythmic movement of push-pull, advance-retreat, fast-slow, move and counter-move.

In spite of the dangerous desire to plunge in with both feet, John keeps the pace slow and relaxed, building the intensity like a beautiful waltz. It could be completely consuming and overwhelming, yet, because it is John, it is interspersed with moments of playfulness and a sort of innocent joy that keeps Sherlock from withdrawing in self-protection. 

After 90 minutes John is looking more sober, with clearer eyes and less slurred words. It only makes sense that his body has had time to process the alcohol. However, he still seems giddy, often grinning like the Cheshire cat whenever they break apart to catch their breath. He also often mumbles little exclamations of praise that don't seem altogether voluntary yet they melt Sherlock's anxiety and stoke a heat deep within Sherlock.

They are sliding their lips together in deep kisses that part Sherlock's lips when John's tongue first darts out to taste at Sherlock's lips. Sherlock is so startled that his mouth snaps shut, nipping John's lip between his teeth in the process. He expects immediate anger but instead John giggles, burying his face into Sherlock's shoulder.

“Suppose I deserved that,” he says around a bubbly laugh that shakes Sherlock. His face turns into Sherlock's neck and his lips are smiling against Sherlock's ear “You're just too bloody delicious.” He growls playfully and feigns an attack on Sherlock's neck, all wet lips and hot breath and faint scrape of hard teeth, that sets off an odd explosion of sensation that starts at Sherlock's neck then ricochetes through his chest, into his stomach and pelvis.

“John,” Sherlock gasps, not quite sure what to do with these new sensations. It feels… _good_ … yet… _bad._ Like a tickle that you want to be a scratch; something that might be pleasurable but is agonizing because it's not quite enough. 

“Right. Mmm. Lips.” John leans back and smiles down at Sherlock. He is sliding his body more firmly onto Sherlock and Sherlock isn't sure how to feel about that. On one hand the pressure and heat and closeness of John is exquisite. On the other, he is not sure where this is going and if he'll have the willpower to stop it if John wants everything. 

However, in this moment, John is looking down at him with utter adoration, as if he is perfect and it is enough to make some last self-defense barrier break inside Sherlock. This easy intimacy, this comfortable vulnerability, is something Sherlock didn't know was possible. Couldn't dream or dare to hope for. No one has ever looked at Sherlock like that or treated him like something so precious.

“John?” 

“Shhhh.” John's warm fingers rub lightly against Sherlock's lips. “It's all right.” 

Is it? It must be. It feels right. Confusing and a bit overwhelming, but _right._

Those two fingers stop stroking and just rest against the center of Sherlock's lips. It's like a question but Sherlock doesn't understand what is being asked. He looks up at John, hovering over him, then slowly parts his lips, letting John's fingers slip inside. He is relieved to find that that must be the right answer because John's whole demeanor transforms immediately.

“Oh, Christ.” John breathes. “Sherlock.”

_Yes, that must be right._

Sherlock thinks he will never be able to hear his name the same again because in 18 years of existence no one has ever said it quite like _that;_ so full of raw desire and awe and want that Sherlock feels hearing his name spoken like _that_ has somehow transformed him at his very core. 

He closes his eyes and then closes his lips tightly around John's fingers. He tentatively tastes at them, running his tongue over the swirls on the pads, learning his unique fingerprints as ridges against his taste buds. He snaps his eyes open in surprise when John moans low and loud. It's like nothing he has ever heard before. He realises that John is trembling above him, staring down with such an intensely conflicted look on his face that Sherlock freezes, everything inside him running cold. 

_No. That's not right._

“God, Sherlock, I want to…” John is on his feet beside the bed before Sherlock can gather himself to protest. “Listen, this isn't- We shouldn’t-” 

Sherlock's mouth now feels strangely empty, with the lingering taste of John in it. The wet path John's fingers left on his lips when they retreated, now chilling in the cool air. The memory of the weight of those fingers on his tongue and John's body pressing him down seem to be enough to immobilize him in a temporary paralysis. 

“You're so - and I really shouldn't-” John's hands are in his hair and his eyes are wide in panic. “I'm drunk and you're so much- I mean, I've already-”

John fumbles across the room, headed for the door. Sherlock has now managed to sit up but can't say anything. He can only watch in stunned horror as John comes to his senses and rejects all that happened between them. Obviously, now that John had sobered up, he realizes once more that he ‘isn't gay’ and kissing a bloke is a rather repulsive thing for a heterosexual male. 

“Christ, just look at you.” John makes a shaky gesture and Sherlock looks down to realize his sheet has fallen down off his shoulders to pool at his waist. His chest is bear and, obviously, not at all appealing to John. 

“John-” Sherlock tries to pull the sheet back up and cocoon himself in it. His mind is whirring uselessly, attempting to construct an excuse that will calm the situation and make him acceptable to John once more. 

“You're so much and I just can't-” John's voice is full of devastation. Sherlock looks up and the door is closing. “I'm sorry. I should go. I'll just-” 

The door clicks shut with a note of cold finality. The whole experience ending as quickly and with as much confusion as it began.

**Author's Note:**

> _All credit for the first paragraph goes to promptsforjohnlock! Thanks for getting my creative juices flowing._
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> **Show some love of you feel the love. Your Kudos and Comments are my lifeblood!**


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